Hermione stifled her tears. She knew this particular dress showed her arms and back, and she’d loved it. Now she regretted it.

Bellatrix had left scars, many of them on Hermione. They decorated her back, arms, and neck. For a while after the incident, Hermione had attempted to bury her feelings of malcontent, by wearing sweaters and long sleeved shirts to hide the hideous marks.

And now, three years later, on the morning of her wedding, her dress left the slashes from the knife uncovered, for everyone to see at last.

The first tear slipped down her cheek. Wiping it away, Hermione looked up at the mirror. Her white dress was beautiful, she could agree with that. Strapless and gossamer, it hugged her sides and flowed down to her ankles. She had straightened her hair once again, like she had so many years ago for the Yule Ball. But then she was trying to catch Victor Krum. Now she had who she wanted, but she was afraid he wouldn’t want her.

Hermione was sure that later, Ginny would make a much more beautiful bride. She had no scars. Her skin was beautiful and untouched, completely natural. She hadn’t been tortured, pulled by her hair, threatened with a knife at her throat. Hermione, in her self-centered greif, didn't remember that she was not the only one ever to suffer.

The friends had decided to do a double wedding. Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione. It would take longer, of course, but they had wanted to do it, it would be more special for friends.

The dress rehearsal had gone well. Her Maid of Honor, Luna, had looked quite beautiful in the yellow dress she had insisted on. Ron’s Best Man, Neville, had been placed in a yellow tuxedo to match Luna’s. Ginny shared her Maid of Honor, because of course Luna was Ginny’s best friend. And Harry shared his Best Man with Ron, because they couldn’t think of someone better. But Harry had insisted that four-and-a-half-year-old Teddy would get to be the ringbearer.

As another tear dripped down her cheek, and another streaked after it, and Hermione had begun to sniffle, there was a knock on her door.

“May I come in?” she heard someone ask the door.

“No,” croaked Hermione. “Go away.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. Hermione could hear her getting closer.

“No, I’m not. Just come in and get your lecture over with already.”

The door clicked, and Hermione turned away from Ginny’s mirror. She didn’t need to see her face.

“You know, you think that you have bad scars, don’t you?’ Luna asked, sliding weightlessly onto the bed beside Hermione.

Hermione nodded, wordlessly expressing her grief. She looked up, and to her amazement, Luna was wearing a strapless dress not unlike her own. Now she realized the flowing sleeves and other bits of the garment were just a jacket. Now she could see Luna’s arms and back quite clearly. Upon them were fiercer scars then Hermione had ever seen. Great slashes, scrapes, and even teeth marks adorned her once unmarked skin. Hermione gasped, feeling ashamed.

Luna laughed, raising her eyebrows higher. “And you haven’t even seen the one on my leg yet!” she exclaimed, lifting her skirt to show a good bit of flesh missing from her calf. Higher up, there were even more slashes, and great long lines of missing skin. Some of them were raw, and still appeared to be bleeding, even though they were long sealed off, years after what must have happened at Malfoy Manor.

“Are you ashamed?” she asked, brushing Hermione’s hair back, which had started to become frizzy again, while Hermione’s tears increased.

Hermione nodded, ducking her head so the younger girl wouldn’t see her cry.

“I don’t think that’s right.”

Luna’s sudden certainty shocked her so much, Hermione sat straight up.

“Really? Why shouldn’t I have a right to be ashamed of these great foul scars running along my neck, arms and back? I used to have somewhat clear skin, not full of - these-abominations! And you think I shouldn’t be ashamed that I’m not pretty anymore! That I let that foul woman do this to me!”

Hermione’s outburst, far from flustering Luna, simply made her laugh.

“You think it’s funny!” Hermione shouted, wishing she hadn’t, the Burrow was a very inconvenient place to break down.

“No, I don’t. We didn’t let her do anything to us. She snuck up and hurt us. There was nothing that could have been done about it. It’s just that I think you should be proud. If they weren’t torturing you, they could have been killing Harry. And if Harry was dead, Voldemort would be alive, and most of us would be dead. If they weren’t torturing me, then they could have been killing other people. You see, we kept them busy while other people got to escape, to live.

If they weren’t torturing us, they could have been, would have been killing other people. Our friends, our family. Our scars are a small price to pay for their lives. No one cares about a few marks on our skin. They care about what’s in us, Hermione. Ron loves you for who you are, not what you look like. And you still are beautiful.

When I got dragged off the train, I bought someone else some time. Six months worth of life. They got to live a bit longer because I kept the Malfoys busy. I’m sorry if you feel ashamed, but I just want you to know, no one cares, and you should be proud.”

And Luna stood up gently, and went from the room, her discarded shawl trailing behind her.

Hermione gave one last strangled sob like gasp, when Ron let himself into the room quietly.

Ron walked across the room, and wiped away the last tear with his thumb. “Everything all right, Hermione?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, leaning into him, and felt his strong arms encase her. After a few moments, she pulled away, and tucked her hair behind her ears, not caring about appearances. She was proud of her scars. She saved lives. Luna would be proud.

“Let’s get married.”